Zoe Blake Book Excerpts
Welcome to temptation.
Here you’ll find exclusive excerpts and sneak peeks from Zoe Blake’s dark romance worlds—where power meets passion, and surrender is never simple. Each scene offers a taste of danger, desire, and the kind of love that leaves bruises on the soul. Step closer… and read what happens when good girls crave the wicked.
Savage Vows: Chapter One
Samara
“We’re going to get caught!”
Ignoring the warning, my boyfriend tugged harder on my arm.
The clatter of music and laughter from the party faded the farther Peter pulled me down the dark corridor. When I glanced back, I could just make out a shaft of light as it stretched across the marble-tiled entrance to the great hall. The servants had moved the ancient furnishings out and rolled the Persian carpets up to make room for the celebration. Hired catering staff dressed in ill-fitting tuxedo jackets passed around silver trays with either caviar canapés or glasses of Veuve Clicquot while everyone smiled and pretended to like one another.
From where it was tucked away on a thickly wooded lot along the Rock Creek Parkway, visitors could be forgiven if they thought they’d arrived at a creepy gothic manor. My friend Nadia’s massive granite house was probably over a hundred years ago.
The estate screamed old money and tradition, even though it was far from the truth.
It was only what they wanted people to think.
Instead, it was all just smoke and mirrors.
But I wasn’t allowed to talk about such things.
Peter’s warm hand was sweaty as it roughly clung to mine. As he dragged me down the shadowed labyrinth of hallways, he stopped before each threshold, twisting one doorknob after another to see if they were locked. Soon, the muted rattle of metal against wood and Peter’s soft curses replaced the music. Before long, he found a door the servants had neglected to secure. We slipped inside, and Peter softly clicked the door shut.
The room was mostly dark, only hints of moonlight filtering through the gauzy silver curtains covering the floor-to-ceiling windows.
We didn’t dare turn on a light.
I took a few careful steps inside, not wanting to bump into any furniture. Although I had played in my best friend Nadia’s house since I was a child, I hadn’t been paying attention, so I wasn’t sure which room Peter had pulled us into. I knew the first floor on this side of the house mostly contained a mixture of bedrooms, gaming areas, and offices.
A distinct scent clung to the air, the unmistakable mark of the room’s occupant.
Closing my eyes, I inhaled.
It was a warm woodsy scent with a hint of ginger and spice.
My eyes snapped open.
I knew that scent.
“We have to leave.”
“What?”
Clasping Peter’s forearm in a tight grip, I bent my knees and tugged, throwing my weight backward. “Please, Peter. We can’t stay in this room!”
My slight frame was not enough to budge him.
“No. All the other rooms are locked. Besides…” He snatched me around the waist, then yanked me against his chest. “This one has a bed.”
Peering over Peter’s shoulder, I widened my eyes as I could just make out the ominous outline of the four-poster bed.
That was his bed.
Clawing at Peter’s fingers, I freed myself from his hold.
I had to get out of here!
“No, Peter. You don’t understand!”
I couldn’t be caught in this bedroom.
In his bedroom.
Of course, I should have known he would be here tonight.
It was Nadia’s eighteenth birthday, after all.
It had been five years since I had last seen him, but it didn’t matter.
Ten years… hell, twenty years could pass and it still wouldn’t matter.
I would still be terrified of him.
I wasn’t sure why I was nervous.
It wasn’t like he cared–if he even knew who I was.
I had stopped myself from asking Nadia if he would be attending her birthday party at least a million times.
Because it didn’t matter.
If I kept telling myself that, it might actually be true. It had to be true. Besides, I had my own life now. I even had a boyfriend. I wasn’t that foolish little girl with a crush. Not anymore.
But that scent.
His cologne.
Bleu de Chanel.
The unmistakable scent of him.
Goose bumps rose on my arms.
He was here.
Pivoting on my heel, I clamored in the darkness for the doorknob, desperate to return to the party. Back to the music and light and dancing, to people and laughter… and safety.
As soon as I managed to open the door a sliver, it was wrenched from my hands and slammed shut.
Peter took hold of my shoulders, spun me around, and pushed me against the door.
“You’re such a fucking cock tease.”
The dim lighting threw his face into shadows, contorting his features into harsh lines. His breath had the fetid yeast smell of stale beer from the drink he’d stolen from the bar before the party began.
“What? Why would you—” Confusion scrambled my thoughts.
He clawed at the neckline of my dress, tearing it.
“Peter, stop!”
His palmed my breast, ruthlessly squeezing it. My eyes teared at the searing jolt of pain.
“The saintly Federovs and their virginal daughter. Your family thinks they are so much better than everyone else,” he jeered as he forced his knee between my thighs.
Digging my nails into his wrist, I struggled to break free. “Let me go!”
“I’m tired of hand jobs and dry humps. Come on, Samara,” he whined as he down crowded closer and tried to kiss me.
I stretched my head to the side, avoiding his lips. My mind could not keep up with Peter’s crazy display of emotions. Angry one second, but pleading the next. I knew he wasn’t happy with my decision not to go all the way, but he was insane if he thought I was going to have sex with him at my friend’s birthday party with my mother and father just down the hall.
Craning my neck, I kept pulling on his arm, trying to dislodge his painful grip on my breast.
“Peter, get off me!”
His free hand went for the zipper of his jeans. “I’ll be quick. I’ll even pull out, so you won’t get pregnant.”
This isn’t happening.
Although we could never talk about Nadia’s family business, I knew security guards always patrolled the grounds. Maybe if I cried out, I’d get lucky and one would be in earshot and come help me. With the loud music, there was no chance of anyone from the party hearing me. As I opened my mouth to scream, there was the soft shush of a sliding door opening. The cool rush of midnight air brought with it the acrid scent of cigar smoke.
Peter released his grasp, whirling around.
We both stared as the immense dark figure of a man stalked in from the stone patio running along the northside of the bedroom.
It was him.
Gregor Ivanov.
Nadia’s older brother.
In the barely lit room, he was still deep in shadows, but I knew it was him.
My gaze followed the glowing end of the cigar he must have been smoking outside.
Without saying a word, he stepped inside and leaned against the front of the desk. He took another slow drag from his cigar; the end glowing brightly like an evil, all-seeing eye. When he exhaled, a halo of sweet tobacco smoke encircled him. With slow deliberation, Gregor set the cigar aside, slid open a side drawer… and withdrew a revolver.
My hand flew up to cover my mouth.
Peter shifted behind me.
When Gregor’s chilly voice finally broke the tense silence, my body started at the sound.
“Were you aware that Russians did not invent Russian roulette?”
Flicking the chamber open, he reached into the drawer a second time, then raised his arm. The bright casing of a single bullet caught the moonlight.
“An American author made it up for a short story,” Gregor continued as he slid the bullet into the revolver chamber with a click.
“Who is this guy?” Peter whispered over my shoulder.
“Shut up,” I hissed through clenched teeth, afraid to even move my lips. My body tensed so tightly it felt like brittle glass. I was sure the slightest loud sound or sudden movement would make me shatter.
Gregor straightened to his full height.
Peter and I both gasped, stumbling a few steps backward.
“Still, everyone believes it must be true. Probably because we Russians are so crazy, no?” Gregor said as he took
several steps toward us.
Peter’s fingers dug into my shoulders as he pushed me forward.
My fingers turned to ice as all the feeling left my body. My tongue felt heavy when I tried to form my next words.
“Gregor, it’s… Samara, I’m Nadia’s—”
“I know who you are, Samara.”
My heart lurched at the sound of my name on his lips—at the seductive way he softly rounded the r.
Despite both of our families living in America now, Gregor had been sent back to Russia just over five years ago because of some hastily covered-up scandal at his college. So his accent was thicker, giving his voice decadent darkness that was almost mesmerizing.
My brow furrowed. How could he know who I was? The last time I’d been around him, I was nothing more than his little sister’s awkward friend, barely thirteen years old. He hadn’t known I was alive.
Without warning, Gregor reached out and snatched Peter by the collar, dragging him out from behind me. Peter’s gangly limbs flailed as Gregor manhandled him across the room. He tossed the man into a chair in front of the cold fireplace.
Placing his hands on the armrests, Peter immediately tried to get up. When Gregor raised the gun, Peter fell back onto the seat. His high-pitched voice broke as he stuttered, “We didn’t mean to come into your room.”
Gregor cut his grey gaze toward me.
I hugged myself around the waist, trying to stop my body from trembling. His steely eyes surveyed me from head to toe.
He took a step forward.
With a gasp, I stumbled backward. I couldn’t help it.
As much as the man enthralled me…
He terrified me more.
Always had.
Except now, he was even bigger and scarier with way more tattoos. Even in the darkened bedroom, I could make out the outline of an image on his neck and several more on his hands, making the tailored suit he wore a mockery of civility. The man radiated dark energy and barely leashed anger.
His eyes narrowed. I could tell my reaction displeased him.
Switching the gun to his left hand, he kept it trained on Peter. After giving him a warning look, Gregor returned his attention to me. He raised his right arm.
Instinctively, I moved back again. The hard look on his face stilled me. After holding my gaze long enough to freeze the blood in my veins, his eyes lowered to the torn neckline of my dress.
Glancing down, it mortified me to see the top of my pink lace bra exposed. Despite the low lighting, you could already see the beginning of a bruise on my soft flesh from Peter’s rough handling.
Using two fingers, Gregor pulled aside the fabric, exposing more of my skin to his gaze. Using just the tip of his middle finger, he caressed the outline of the bruise. I hissed in air through my teeth when he touched a particularly sensitive spot.
His jaw tightened. The steel of his eyes turned to molten fire.
Turning his head, he looked at Peter as he cocked back the hammer.
Peter’s eyes widened as he threw up his hands in pitiful defense. “No!”
His plea fell on deaf ears.
Without saying a word, Gregor pulled the trigger.
Sweet Cruelty: Chapter One
A Ruthless Russian Arms Dealer crosses paths with an innocent Librarian student and decides to claim her for his own, despite the consequences.
Emma
“No one who had ever seen Catherine Morland in her infancy, would have supposed her born to be a heroine.”
– Jane Austen, Northanger Abbey
I had run out of time… and options.
Tuition was due next week.
I had no choice but to beg for the money tonight, or I’d be kicked out of school.
I gripped the cold, wrought iron fence railing and tried to calm my breathing. I reached up to straighten my bangs as I checked to make sure the topknot securing my hair was still in place. Normally, I just threw my hair up in a messy bun with two twists of a scrunchy, but today I had taken the care to smooth it into a tight, elegant bun. I had hoped it would make me look older and studious. The effect was almost worth the headache the tight hair band and bobbypins were giving me. I couldn’t wait for this to be over. The first thing I would do would be to take my hair down.
Giving myself one last inspection, I bent down to wipe a small smudge off the toe of my Doc Marten Mary Janes before straightening my pink plaid skirt.
Hefting my leather backpack onto my shoulder, I swung open the gate. Wincing as it squeaked, I paused, waiting for… I’m not sure what.
The sounds of angry dogs barking? A warning gunshot over my head?
Sliding first one foot along the brick-paved walkway, then the other, I forced myself to walk up the short set of stairs.
Rolling my eyes, I sighed. The house would have an imposing glossy black door with a massive brass lion’s head clasping a heavy ring in its jaws for a door knocker. All I was missing was some misty fog and the sound of the Thames lapping at the shore and I’d be in some
Dicken’s novel with me playing the part of the poor urchin begging for scraps.
No!
I wasn’t the poor urchin.
Squaring my shoulders, I reminded myself I was the heroine of my story. And like most of Austen’s heroines, this particular heroine desperately needed this man’s money! As Lizzie Bennet said to the arrogant Mr. Darcy: My courage always rises at every attempt to intimidate me.
With more boldness than I felt, I raised my arm to grasp the metal ring. Before I could, the door swung open with such force, a blast of air ruffled my bangs.
With a small cry, I took a step back.
In my vivid imagination, the person seemed more beast than man.
With his legs planted wide, his shaved head barely missed hitting the top of the doorway. The black goatee covering his upper lip and chin only highlighted the sharp planes of his jaw and nose. Beneath his right eye there was some sort of slash mark or scar which gave the already pretty freaking scary-looking man an even more ominous appearance. Naked from the waist up, his muscled chest was covered in brightly colored tattoos. Good Lord! Was that an image of a dagger dripping with blood on his neck?
A grim scowl clouded his features as he stared down at me with cold, stormy eyes.
“I… I… I….” My brain froze. My jaw was too stiff to form any words.
“You’re late.”
In reality, I knew he had spoken some normal, English-language words, but all I heard emanating from his lips was the deep, threatening growl of a beast. It didn’t help that he had the distinctive guttural purr of a Russian accent.
This man was definitely not Mr. Linus Fitzgerald III elderly son of my former benefactor!
My tongue felt thick and awkward in my mouth. “I’m so sorry. There’s been a mistake.”
My body jerked off-balance as my heel slid out over the edge of the top step in my effort to back slowly away from the angry, bear-like man.
His giant paw snatched me by the upper arm and dragged me over the threshold. I fell against the hard heat of his body.
“There is no mistake, моя крошка. You’re mine for the night.”
The heavy black door swung shut, cutting me off from the safe sounds of civilization.
“No! Wait!”
It was too late.
I was alone with the Russian beast… inside his lair.
Wicked Games – A NSFW (Seriously, I’m not kidding with that!) Excerpt
The feel of her soft breast being crushed in my hand while she pushed her ass against my cock, grinding down on the hand which worked her sweet cunt was the only encouragement I needed to know my new plan was truly best for her… and for us.
“Now I want you to be a good girl and get up on the chair.”
“Am I being punished for running?”
“Yes. That was an extremely foolish and dangerous thing for you to do, my love. More dangerous than you realize,” I warned.
She whimpered. “Are you going to hurt me?”
“Yes.” There was no point in denying it. She would learn soon enough.
Her small body trembled within my grasp.
Her next question was barely above a whisper. “Are you going to kill me?”
Turning her in my arms, I brushed a soft curl from off her shoulder and ran the back of my knuckles over her cheek till I could brush her full lower lip with the pad of my thumb. Focusing on that lush mouth and how I would soon be pounding my cock into it without mercy, I said, “Only if you disobey me again.”
Her knees buckled.
Grasping her around the shoulders and slipping my arm under her knees, I lifted her slight weight onto the upper tier of the siege d’amour chair. Lifting her arms high, I secured them over her head into the brass wrist shackles.
Ignoring her murmured pleas and apologies for escaping, I placed one ankle then the other in the stirrups before locking the brass ankle plates in place.
Reaching between her legs and under the cushion, I turned a small hidden crank. The stirrups slowly slid out to the sides on well-greased hinges. I didn’t stop till her legs were spread obscenely wide with her beautiful ass hanging just over the edge of the cushion, vulnerable to my ministrations.
Her prone body was now completely restrained. This really was a marvelous invention of Bertie’s. It had countless options for restraining not one but two females at once into some extremely painful yet pleasurable positions. Once I stood on the lower tier and placed my feet in the brass fixtures, after grasping the handles on either side of her head,
I would be at the perfect angle to inflict the most pounding pressure as I thrust into her cunt or ass.
But that was for later… much later.
For now, I had to make my little caged bird forget she ever knew how to fly.
Walking over to a silver tray brought in per my explicit instructions, I removed the silver cloche from the platter, and picked up the largest piece of fresh ginger root on offer. Selecting a sharp paring knife, a began to circle around Elizabeth’s body secured to the chair as I shaved and shaped the root.
Taking on the instructive tone of a parent about to discipline a child, I reminded Elizabeth. “This is the direct consequence of your own foolish actions. I need you to remember that, my love. How you are treated will depend on how you behave. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Richard,” she answered obediently as her wide emerald eyes stared at each movement of the knife in my hand.
“This particular punishment was used on female slaves in Ancient Greece when they were also foolish enough to defy their masters.”
Flick. Flick. Flick.
Slowly the small hard nubs and rough outer skin was shaved away to show the stiff, yellow fibrous ginger.
“It is designed to inflict maximum pain and discomfort without marring their… property.”
To her credit, she remained silent, save for the rapid rise and fall of her chest with her anxious breathing. She looked like a rabbit caught in an open field by an angry beast, desperately hoping if they stayed still for long enough the beast would lose interest and move on. It rarely worked out that way for the little rabbit.
“It is called figging. It’s also called gingering the tail and is used to make horses carry their tail high and to encourage movement.”
Flick. Flick. Flick.
The piece of ginger was now twice the thickness of my thumb and about three inches long. An intense size for her first figging but then again, I had promised myself to no longer be lenient. It was for her own good.
“Are you sensing a theme, my dear? Punishment. Obedience. Responsive. Movement.”
Elizabeth wet her lips. “Please, Richard. I don’t need to be punished. I promise I’ll be good from now on.”
I placed the wet tip of the ginger root against her lower lip and rubbed it around her mouth. “You’re wrong. You do need this punishment.”
The tip of her small pink tongue traced the path of the ginger root. I watched as a spark of fear shown in her eyes from the slight sting its juices left on her tongue. I stepped away to replace the knife on the tray. I wanted to give her imagination a moment to think of where I would probably be placing the ginger. In any punishment, the imagination was as important a tool as a leather strap or restraints. In fact, I would argue even more important. In many cases, I could never inflict the type of pain she was currently spinning over in her little head, as bad as the pain I was about to inflict would be.
Returning to the chair, I stepped between her open thighs. The chairs upper tier placed her body perfectly at my waist. She whimpered and tried in vain to close her knees but the stirrups kept her legs spread too far open.
Taking the tip of the ginger root, I pushed it between the folds of her cunt. Taking a moment, I circled her clit a few times before apply just the slightest pressure against her entrance. Her body tensed as she held her breath. Again, I paused for her imagination to play. I then continued to her puckered back entrance. Using my one hand, I pushed her cheeks open a little wider to expose the dark pink hole with its tiny valley of ridges and peaks.
Adjusting my grip on the root, I pressed the tip against her hole and pushed.
Elizabeth tried to shimmy her hips back and away from my touch but the restraints prevented her.
I pushed harder, watching the yellow, fibrous cylinder slide into her resisting hole.
I could hear her gasp then still, holding her breath. Bracing for the pain. After a moment, she began to relax. I smiled. My poor pet didn’t realize it would take a moment for the ginger’s full effect to hit.
With anticipation, I stood between her open thighs and watched… and waited. I wanted to observe the very moment her body began to react.
I didn’t have to wait long.
Her fingers clenched into fists as her feet began to shift and pull in the stirrups with the movement of her hips.
“Oh god. It’s starting to burn!” she exclaimed.
I had cut a deep ridge at the base of the root, to form a plug, so she would be unable to push the ginger root out. Now I watched her anus, tremble and twitch as she tried to do just that. The pink skin began to glisten as some of the ginger juice was pushed out.
As the burn intensified her cheeks and chest began to flush as her eyes glazed over.
“Please! Make it stop!”
Moving over to the table. I picked up a well-oiled leather strap. It was actually an authentic Victorian era Army Hospital Corp leather belt. Authenticity was so important with such things. The heavy brown leather had carefully been maintained over the years with oil and use, so it remained as supple and flexible as it was back in 1884. I particularly liked the circular interlocking buckle with the Queen’s crown on it.
Stretching the belt between my two fists, I once more approached Elizabeth. By now her cheeks were flushed an angry red as her body writhed on the chair.
“Ow! It’s burning! It’s burning!”
The harsh ginger juice within the delicate, unprotected skin of her anus would feel like acid on a wound. And it was only about to get worse.
Standing to the side of the chair, I let the length of the strap fall over her stomach. I wanted her to see its width, to feel its weight. Again, I was using her own mind against her.
“It’s time, my love.”
Elizabeth shook her head. “No! No! Please, Richard!” Her voice was shrill as she begged.
Reaching over, I stroked her hair. The elegant chignon had already come loose. It now hung in wild disarray on her shoulders with a stray curl sticking to the tears on her cheeks. Using my finger, I pushed the curl away and stroked her warm cheek. “I want you to scream as loud as you want, my love. No one who hears would dare come through that door to rescue you.”
Stepping back with my right foot, I raised the belt high.
Elizabeth began to scream before it even struck her flesh.
The first time the strap caught her across her smooth, flat belly. The next I aimed at her pert nipples. I loved the sound of the leather as it hit her skin. Over and over again. Her nipples darkened and swelled. Small welts caused by the edge of the belt began to appear on the soft curve of her tits. I also knew that with each strike her body would involuntarily tense her anus muscles, adding to her agonizing pain as they squeezed the ginger root, allowing for more juice to trickle onto her already sore and inflamed inner flesh.
She began to choke on her own cries as they tumbled in a mad rush to escape her mouth. Her body jumped and jolted as if hit with a bolt of electric current with each kiss of the belt.
“Please stop! It hurts! I can’t take it anymore.”
Allowing myself a small bit of pity and unwilling to belt her tits to the point of breaking the skin, I stepped to the space just outside her open legs.
Elizabeth’s tear-filled eyes widened as she realized my intent. “No! No! Please! At least give me some laudanum so
I can withstand the pain.”
I could understand why she was begging for laudanum. Its euphoric effect would take the edge of the pain while allowing her body to find the pleasure behind it that much sooner. It is probably why it was so popular in the Victorian era and why I was happy to add it to her training but not today. “Laudanum is for good girls.”
Raising my arm, I brought it ruthlessly down on her exposed cunt.
Elizabeth screamed so long and hard, I genuinely thought she might pass out and I would have to revive her to continue the punishment.
In later punishments, I would force open her folds so I could be sure to strike that small bundle of nerves into swollen submission but for now, I would be content with pussy whipping her with the belt, knowing with each strike her asshole would be that much more on fire.
After several minutes, I withdrew the ginger root. Elizabeth sagged in relief. I knew it would continue to burn for at least another half an hour but not as intensely, which was why I was preparing a fresh one.
Allowing her to catch her breath, I picked up the knife and scraped the skin off a second piece. From her rapid breathing permeating the silent room, I could tell the pain was beginning to build. Up to this point she had been reacting to the direct sting of both the belt and the ginger but the waves of prickling heat were taking over as the blood began to rise to the surface. Each place that was touched by the belt would begin to feel swollen and bruised as her own heartbeat would pound in her ears with each pulse of pain.
It would be absolute agony if I were to repeat the punishment all over again… so that was exactly what I did.
But first, I needed to give her a little pleasure. I wasn’t inflicting pain for pain’s sake. I was using it as a tool of submission and pleasure. Leaning over her stomach, I inhaled the spicy scent of her sweat mixed with ginger. Moving downwards, I pressed the tip of my tongue between her folds and began to play with her clit, swirling to the left then the right.
“Don’t! Don’t do this to me. Don’t make me cum while I feel this pain. It’s wrong! Please!” she begged.
Ignoring her pleas, I used my tongue and fingers to bring her to tortured release against her will. After her breathing started to slow, I knew it was time to insert the second piece of ginger.
Time for more pain, I thought as I picked up my belt.
By the time I removed the second piece, Elizabeth was nonsensical from the torment.
Broken.
I knew it was only temporary. I would have to take her to this level of pain every day for the foreseeable future before she truly broke and submitted. Before I had truly clipped her wings.
From this point forward, she would suffer through daily instructions from me.
Still, looking at her pale skin, covered in mottled red marks and the bright sheen of sweat, I felt my own traitorous feelings of love rising to the surface. If I couldn’t comfort her, at least I could experience some of her pain.
Removing my clothes, I stepped between her thighs.
Fisting my cock, I placed the tip at the puckered entrance of her asshole. I hissed through my teeth as the ginger juice touched the sensitive head of my shaft. In fucking her raw, I would inflict even more pain which soothed my guilt but at the same time, I would also share with her that pleasurable dark sting.
Taking a deep breath, I forced my cock into her tight hole in one thrust to the hilt.
Her screams mixed with my growls as the ginger juice now tortured us both.
